


A Song Is Home

by AgateHearts



Category: Rogue One: A Star Wars Story (2016), Star Wars - All Media Types
Genre: Adventure, Fluff, Gen, Music, Singing, Spot the Legends cameos
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-18
Updated: 2019-01-18
Packaged: 2019-10-04 00:43:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,487
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17294420
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AgateHearts/pseuds/AgateHearts
Summary: Baze and Chirrut trust each other, but that doesn't mean it's easy to be apart. Each must face down their own challenges to take care of those they care about. Chirrut especially misses Baze's voice; but Baze knows, and leaves him an unexpected gift.





	A Song Is Home

Baze was singing under his breath as he prepared to leave. Chirrut loved the low rumble of his singing voice, the smooth shifts in tone, the way his warmth and resonance spread out from his chest like waves of warm honey, sweetening and fortifying the atmosphere of the room. The words he was rumbling were impossible to hear, even for Chirrut, but the song was a familiar one, “Planetlight on the Lily Star.” Not a Temple song, but a song of Jedha, a song in the bones of the people, flowing even from the tongues of strangers that felt like home to remind you you were not alone in times of separation.  
  
Chirrut sat tall, holding his staff even though he was indoors, in their own home: a passive protest of Baze’s imminent departure. Baze seemed determined not to realize, the sounds of him checking the connections of his cannon rhythmic and mechanical counterpoints to his voice. Chirrut suspected that Baze didn’t realize he was singing the old romantic song about partings and meetings, despite the timing. If pressed he would no doubt argue that, sometimes, songs were just catchy.  
  
When Baze paused between verses, setting aside his cannon in favor of donning his armor, Chirrut commented, “Ah, have you lost your voice? Are you not singing now?” He raised his chin, staring absently with unseeing eyes above and to the side of where Baze stood. “You know, when you are gone, it’s as though both my sight and my hearing have failed.” Baze went still, looking at him, Chirrut knew, and a small grin touched his lips. “For how little you say, the silence of your absence is more deafening than the sound of you here.” Chirrut forcefully clacked his staff on the floor, adding emphasis. “ _Clearly_ the only solution is for you to stay home.”  
  
Baze grunted a laugh, then walked across the room, approaching Chirrut. Chirrut didn’t startle as Baze raised his repeater cannon to tap against Chirrut’s staff. His voice was low and clear, with a gravelly edge. “I have to go.” Chirrut knew that, but it didn’t keep him from raising his chin and giving a frustrated grimace in protest.  
  
Baze needed the jobs, the work that took him out of NiJedha and into the sands that whirled across Jedha’s bleak surface, down below the mesa where the wind piled coarse grains into thick dunes. He no longer went offworld as he once did, back in the beginning when the fragile shards of his broken faith still cut him deep. Chirrut was glad of that. But NiJedha had become too unpredictable, too risky for Baze to find reliably well-paying jobs, even while in his prime, even while armed. There were too many days when Chirrut’s alms bowl brought in more knots and credits than Baze’s fruitless search for work, and it galled him. While Chirrut trusted the will of the Force, Baze refused to wait on it to fill their bellies.  
  
Baze had found work as a guard on the suddenly-popular caravans traveling to the other cities of the moon. The work of protecting canny traders, shifty sapients with bulky luggage, and pilgrims determined to visit holy sites brought steady pay that didn’t rasp Baze’s conscience. Chirrut was glad that Baze was always relatively close and relatively safe, even if at times when he returned his armor had a few more marks on it. Chirrut couldn’t see the damage but he could feel it, a coarse reminder under his fingertips that their once-peaceful home, before now so focused on the holy and the mystic, had become all too rooted in the physical, burned and scarred at the edges.  
  
Chirrut spoke into the quiet that Baze seemed all too content to soak in, now, the old song fled from his lips and his attention returned to the moment as he dug through the small bag of what he was taking with him. “Fine, leave a blind man in silence! You will just have to pay me double in words when you return.”  
  
Chirrut could feel Baze’s crooked grin in the silence, and rapped his staff on the ground once more as Baze shouldered his travel bag. He stood and moved toward the door, reaching out a hand to grasp Baze’s forearm. Coming to face him, Baze gripped his shoulder, then raised his hand to pat Chirrut’s cheek. Baze’s voice was warm and comfortable, avoiding actual words of farewell. “Back soon. Don’t make trouble.”  
  
Chirrut gave an exaggerated sigh. “ _That’s_ what you worry about? What kind of monk do you think I am?”  
  
Baze’s snort was impossible to argue with. Chirrut committed the sound of his receding footsteps to memory, knowing it would be the last he would hear from Baze for some time. The words of the song Baze had been singing whispered in the silence: _NaJedha’s light reflect on you as paths you walk, as wastes you stride; let glimmers of that gifting light remind you I’ll come to your side._

❊    ❊    ❊

  
When Baze returned two weeks later, he was in better spirits than usual. The money he had earned from a run to one of the more distant towns would be enough to hold them for several weeks, with extra to share with those suffering under the Imperial presence. Chirrut never felt bad about spreading his knots and credits around generously; he knew Baze did just as much, if not more, for all that Chirrut almost had to catch him out at it. Baze’s gruff exterior was something he maintained in public despite his generosity, but Chirrut teased him in private until Baze sniped back, contented toothless barbs flying in the cramped space of their rooms.  
  
As a rule the two of them orbited each other, frequently in the other’s sphere throughout the rhythms of the day. Each had time alone, individuals they were friendly with, places they shopped or loitered in, but they always came back together regularly to share and discuss what they’d seen. After Baze’s most recent journey, though, Chirrut had found himself distracted by a need among the pilgrims clustered near the remains of the Temple of the Kyber. A growing number of those who had been able to come to Jedha on the generosity and blessing of others, trusting that the alms they could beg at the Temple would allow them to return off-world, found that they were stranded on a depleted, ever-more-hostile planet. The Imperials had no patience with those there for religious reasons. Their greed for the kyber took all their attention and time, and keeping the peace meant breaking up any religious gathering, even if those gathering had nowhere else to go.  
  
Chirrut had a solution.  
  
Chirrut’s insights as a blind monk, formerly Guardian of the Temple of the Kyber, led to him being revered for his wisdom and calming presence. His cheerful and patient presence was well-known in NiJedha. Less well known was his physical prowess, his staff and echobox causing most who saw him to underestimate him. At times this led to extra acts of kindness, the fruits of which Chirrut promptly diverted to those in greater need. Rarely it led to beings trying to take advantage of him; but in that case, if those friendly to Chirrut didn’t chase them off, Chirrut’s inexorable grip and unnerving smile led to uneasy peace and the perpetrator avoiding interaction with him in the future. Being underestimated had many benefits, some more tangible than others.

Chirrut could hardly wait to share his latest experience with that to Baze.  
  
“A bet?” Baze’s voice held an edge of disbelief, tempered with a long-suffering tone Chirrut knew all too well. He spun his staff in his hand, tilting his head at Baze and grinning.  
  
“No, better! A series of bets, one after the other.” He tilted his head back, blue eyes wide and peaceful, crinkling slightly at the corners of his eyes as he smiled. “The ship captains think me an easy mark! But they will see what I can do. And with the faithful witnessing, and backing me up, well! I am sure that the captains can be persuaded to ferry pilgrims to a safe world on their way rather than having to put their ship in hock to pay a humiliating debt.”  
  
Chirrut could hear Baze’s guffaw in his chest, and his own grin grew wider. “Care to watch?” He leaned over, lowering his voice to say conspiratorially, “I think some of the pilgrims even have side bets going with each other about how well I’ll do. You could fill me in.”  
  
Chirrut could sense when Baze shook his head, and Chirrut shrugged. Baze’s voice was amused when he said, “This is your battle, and your victory. You don’t need an ego boost from me.”  
  
Chirrut jutted his chin at him. “When do you _ever_ add to my ego?”  
  
Baze grunted in reply, sniping back, “ _Everything_ adds to your ego.” Chirrut snorted, and Baze responded after a few heartbeats, “I will come for part of the challenge. In case.” Chirrut nodded, relaxing his shoulders slightly at the knowledge Baze would be there as backup in case the captains decided to try to be… _creative_ in how they paid their debts. Or _didn’t_ pay, given the chance.  
  
Chirrut tucked his chin in and smiled widely, his voice smug. “I haven’t had a chance to use these forms in months! You will have to tell me how good I looked.”  
  
Chirrut could feel Baze looking at him with exasperated humor. Chirrut liked to get the last word, but Baze left him flat-footed as he replied, “That's what you seek a compliment about? Blind man.” Chirrut couldn’t hide his smile beneath pretend outrage at Baze’s rumbling, self-pleased laugh.

❊    ❊    ❊

  
Setting up the bets and arranging the physical challenges took time. Each of the four ship captains had to be talked around, and agree seemingly as if it were their own idea to take the correct number of pilgrims in the event they lost their wager. Chirrut’s insight into people’s natures, supplemented by the flashes of clarity from the Force, allowed him to talk around all of the captains until finally every stranded pilgrim was accounted for, passage to other offworld outposts offered as their ante in this gamble. Chirrut didn’t think about what he had promised them if he failed; he would not fail. Not for stakes like these.  
  
Chirrut found that most of his spare time, and much of the mornings and evenings when his and Baze’s time overlapped at their apartment, was filled with meetings and planning and discussions with captains and pilgrims alike. Things came together slowly but well; it helped that Chirrut was placing no bets on himself, instead calling out loudly about how the Force would provide. Baze was a quiet counterpoint in the background, not approaching, always present. Occasionally Chirrut felt him there in the Force, his presence solid and familiar, checking on him in the moment; but Baze let him be, not interfering with the process.  
  
The day the final bet was made Chirrut got back late, the dusky three-quarters dark of NaJedha-waxing night not so chill as to kink him up into a cold knot. He found he was worn, no words left in his well to draw from. Baze also seemed tired in the evenings, his rumbling voice sounding more rarely, but his solid presence was welcoming despite that. Chirrut and Baze did companionable silence well, though Chirrut did miss Baze’s unconscious half-voiced songs as he went about comfortable daily tasks.  
  
Midway through the week Chirrut made a detour before coming back home, bringing Baze some chav tea he purchased with his dwindling store of knots. Baze accepted it with a pleased grunt. Chirrut was glad Baze was unaware that Chirrut was hoping to do silent penance for his absenteeism in the short period while Baze was home, the deadline of his next caravan escort job approaching quickly. The pilgrims needed Chirrut, and he would help them, but he hadn’t forgotten Baze.

Time passed all too quickly for both of them, scattered and distracted by their differing responsibilities. In the end, the day Baze had to leave was the day that Chirrut would undergo the challenges for the bet. Four captians, four challenges: a test of steely resolve, a test of intuition and speed, a test of grace and dexterity, and a test of luck. Chirrut, trusting the Force, had made them all in the same day. More than one friend of his showed up, and from the sound of things the crews of the captains' ships were mingling and trading gibes as they prepared for the show. Chirrut, limbering up and calming down by exploring a familiar zama-shiwo form, pressed his lips flat to prevent a smile. _All is as the Force wills it._

The first test was one Chirrut was least concerned with; yet, it was second only in danger, were he to falter. Chirrut stood on the sand, the cool-voiced captain ordering his pet to stay with a sharp command before stepping back. Chirrut knew Baze was watching; he let his mind clear as he leaned into the Force. The captain's voice rang out. "Drang, release!" Chirrut straightened and breathed out, releasing the tension that clutched at his throat, facing down the vornskr with the pure pressure of his will and the Force, preventing it from attacking him. As moments slid by and the creature moved no closer, Chirrut could hear the crew's startled murmurs growing in volume. Finally the chrono beeped, signaling the end of the challenge. The cool exterior of the captain’s facade cracked into disgruntled disbelief before melting into grudging respect as he called his pet back, Chirrut straightening and swallowing, ignorning the sweat on his forehead. _One down. One group of pilgrims safe.  
_

_Three to go._

Baze was there when Chirrut started the second trial. The setting had been created only this morning: a maze of trenches blasted out of the hard rock beyond the mesa, created by the Aar’aa ship captain in a short time window, "So's there's nah chanc' of yeh skinnin' info, moonk," he'd chortled. Chirrut dropped down into the trench where he'd been led by the mechanically-augmented first mate, breathing deep despite the swirling grit and sand that scraped the raw walls of stone. He counted his breaths, closing his eyes and gripping his staff as he attuned himself to the ripples of the Force, to the feedback from his echobox, to the echoes bouncing weirdly around him. When the _p-chiew!_ of a Blas-Tech DL-44 rang out signaling the start of his time, he was moving unerringly as the Force led like a wind current through a canyon, finding his way with uncanny instinct and timing. When he vaulted out of the final curve he was met with the astounded and pleased laughter of the very captain he'd wagered with, acknowledging his victory with a triple whoop picked up by the whole crew. Chirrut smiled demurely, calming his breathing to hide his thundering heart. _Two down. More than half the pilgrims guaranteed escape._

 _Two to go._  
  
Chirrut lost track of Baze, but had no time to think on it. The third challenge was the most dangerous, and the most personal; the third captain's crew of six were experts with bladed and blunt weapons, eschewing blasters and other ranged weaponry in favor of more close-range implements. Confident in their crew's prowess, the captain had set a simple stipulation: avoid being touched by the crew or their weapons for six minutes, and the pilgrims Chirrut bargained for would receive free transport. The proving ground was an abandoned, half-tumbled caravan site at the foot of the mesa, layered in sand and cool in shadow at this time of day. Chirrut didn't need the light, any more than he feared it; but the edges and shapes of things would baffle his ears. He'd spent one of the nights earlier in the week exploring the deserted space, testing the way sound and air bounced and echoed there. When the shout signaling the start of the challenge rang out, he had a plan. When all six dove for him simultaneously, he leapt straight up, catching his staff on a window ledge, and levered himself up and in with a smooth swipe of his staff. The crew split and followed as he ran, gauging where best to avoid and where best to go to keep from being surrounded. They worked together in near silence; Chirrut assumed they used hand signals to communicate, something he couldn't sense in the swiftness of the challenge, and as they caught up he ducked, dodged, weaved, and feinted as he put all his energy into peaceful fleeing in whatever direction presented itself. Swept up in the challenge of evading the crew’s weapons, he was nearly cornered when two dropped down behind him even as one lunged from the side and another came at him, shouting, from the front. But a whisper of wind imbued with the extra suggestion of blue drew him to crouch and spin in the sand, sliding with the dislodged grains into a buried stairwell and leaving his assailants flat-footed. He fled up the curving stairs, laughing under his breath with exhilaration as the game continued. Chirrut was breathing hard when the final buzzer sounded, but no contact had been made on either side, and the cheering of the pilgrims and other crews was as startling as it was deafening. The captain merely bowed to him, the crew following suit, and Chirrut gravely returned the gesture. _Three done, and most of the pilgrims promised safe passage.  
_

_Time for the last push._

The final challenge, beating the Corellian captain at a hand of sabaac, proved to be startlingly easy. By the time the captain threw down his cards in delight at playing such a bold opponent mingled with disgust at having to go unprofitably out of his way, it was the cooling windrush of sundown. Baze had been gone for hours, his caravan winding out of the gate and away beyond the sharp spires of stone to the north. Chirrut smiled at the babbling and cheering around him as those around him pounded him on the back or patted his shoulder in enthusiastic cheer, and the captain laughed and offered to buy him a drink "In hopes that some of your luck, or the Force, or whatever it is, rubs off on us before we take off."  
  
The cheering pilgrims kept Chirrut out late; he celebrated with those who would move on to a safer place by the next week, the ship captains and crews in grudging agreement and even admiration of the blind Guardian who spoke so confidently of the will of the Force. None of them noticed the spare skifter tucked up Chirrut’s sleeve. _If the Force didn’t stop it, the Force must have willed it,_ Chirrut thought, and chuckled to himself as he extracted himself from tearfully glad pilgrims and navigated the quiet streets of the holy city.  
  
Chirrut returned home in the dark, and didn’t bother with the light as he came in, leaning his staff against the wall. He stripped and washed his face, hands, and feet in the water in the tiny 'fresher before moving slowly to his pallet to sleep. The resounding silence of the space was drowned out by the static of his physical exhaustion. Though he'd trusted the Force, he had to admit there was an emotional letdown too; he'd won victory, but it was tinted by his isolation here, tonight, after the celebration that signalied the imminent departure of those he'd helped. Baze had left without a proper goodbye, unnervingly even more like a ghost than usual. He hadn't even said words of leaving. Pushing the thought away, Chirrut stuffed his head under the pillow, blew out a breath, and sank into sleep.  
  
When the next day dawned Chirrut got up early, stretching and relaxing as he flowed from the bed into a standing position. With practiced movements from living in the same ordered space for years, he prepped his tea and found cold breakfast bao that Baze had made and left for him. There were enough for the first few days, Chirrut’s fingertips dancing delightedly over the different tops signifying different kinds. Baze’s ever-present consideration made him smile widely, wishing he could thank Baze with joking words as usual as he raised the bao to his nose to revel in their satisfying scent. When he went to the table and reached out to set down the plate of bao, his hand encountered an unexpected obstacle. His unintentional push at the object caused a skittering _sk-sk-sk_ sound of plastisteel and metal as it rocked in place.  
  
Chirrut put his breakfast aside and reached out to take the mystery item in both hands, turning it over. It was a small recorder/replayer, relatively simple in type and clearly cobbled together as per Baze’s usual talent. Curious, Chirrut ran his fingers over the device, finding it was an analog version with buttons—extremely outdated and redundant for most, but a lifesaver for Chirrut, the symbols for advance and stop and pause easy to recognize under his exploring fingertips. There was no other touch-writing on the device, no crinkly notes with raised dots for his hand to run into as he swept them across the table, so he checked that the recorder was in playback mode and clicked the replay button, setting the message unspooling.  
  
Baze’s voice sounded, gruff and brief. “You say you miss my voice, you sentimental fool. So let me give you more than enough to get tired of it.” Chirrut leaned back, delighted and entertained. He hadn’t expected Baze to follow through on this of all of their dickering. His sincerity must have been more evident than he thought, a wisp of chagrin flickering through his chest. He set the box on the table and leaned in, listening, wondering, _What will he start with? A joke? Weapon specs? Recipes?_ Since the recording started out with several long moments of silence, Chirrut shifted, trying to get comfortable at the table. He’d settled and taken the first sip of his tea when he heard Baze’s voice start not speaking but singing. Chirrut paused with his cup hovering at his lips, rapt.  
  
Baze’s melody swelled out of the box, warm and low and soft, building in volume. He sang the simple phrase of a repetitive chant popular in the Temple group meditations, back when the Temple still flooded with life and energy. A wash of nostalgia poured over Chirrut, and he leaned forward, fascinated. The purity of Baze’s voice when he was intentionally singing his best was palpable, and only just rivaled the charm of snatches Chirrut overheard of Baze singing to himself.  
  
The melody rose and fell, winding smooth and firm back to where it began. Chirrut thought the tune was coming to an end, but as the melody wrapped back into the first part again Baze’s voice continued and doubled, a second Baze picking up the harmony beneath the tune. The counterpoint wove in and out around the first tune as surely as the wind found its way through the narrow streets around the temple, enriching and broadening the chant. Chirrut’s settled back, still, and listened as the song progressed and more harmonies came into play.  
  
The multi-part chorus, every piece in Baze’s voice, wound itself together and apart, a rippling tapestry that washed over Chirrut in overwhelming waves. Some of the parts Baze chose pushed his register, giving a slightly strained feel to his voice, but the overall impression was one of intense peace, concentration, and beauty. Chirrut’s heart slowed to the beat of meditation as he was washed away in the memories of the Temple as the song wound to an end.  
  
The recorder clicked over, replay button popping up. Chirrut sat in silence for several long minutes, just breathing and letting the spreading feeling of the song’s end soak into his heart like the aftermath of the sudden hard Jedha rain, refreshing and strengthening him. After a protracted silence, Chirrut leaned forward, picking up the device. He hesitated; hearing that once had been incredible, and perhaps he should wait to listen again, savor it longer. But… _Why not,_ he thought, a pang twinging in his heart. _This was his gift. He must have worked on this for days._ His heart stung again as he remembered all the time he’d been gone, and how alone he’d left Baze the last few weeks. Baze hadn’t forgotten him. He’d done this. _He wanted this._  
  
Composed, Chirrut took a deep breath and pressed the button to play the recording again. Baze’s voice rang out again—but clearly Baze had recorded more than one song. Baze’s voice now sang a short and cranky drinking song about the unfairness of a lover’s high expectations, edging on bawdy and much rougher than the serene chant. Chirrut found himself laughing, and as the song ended he eagerly pressed the button for the next selection, the quiet of home filled up with warmth and companionable connection despite the physical distance between the two.

  
❊    ❊    ❊

Baze returned to NiJedha two weeks later to find Chirrut waiting for him, not at their home, but right at the edge of the city where the entrance to the mesa wound up through the lower gate in the wall. Baze made an inquisitive noise, hefting his rifle, but when Chirrut spoke, his staff tapping, his tone made it clear that he wasn’t worried about anything so mundane as the Imperials or bandits.  
  
“Your plan didn’t work.” Chirrut impatiently smacked the end of his staff into the ground, sending a spray of grit flying. He felt, rather than saw, the amused comprehension dawning on Baze. “In fact, it made things _much_ worse! Your voice is _far_ too good, even over a recording. Make it up to me.”  
  
Baze raised his eyebrows and rumbled in an amused tone, “Oh? How?”  
  
Chirrut nodded firmly. “You have to sing now at home, and teach me the songs I don’t know so I can sing them with you too.” He lifted his chin and smiled beatifically. “I can make a recording for you too, once you do.”  
  
Baze cleared his throat, coming close to Chirrut so he could flick a finger against Chirrut’s staff. “Isn’t your ability with your staff deadly enough, without having to bring your voice into it?” Baze ducked Chirrut’s jokingly-outraged blow at that and chuckled to himself all the way home.  
  
That night they sang together, Baze’s voice low and strong, Chirrut’s light and full, and neither drowned out the other as they sang the old song together: _You’ve waited long, you’ve wandered far, your way leads back again; and as you reach through time to me, I’ll wait here for you then._

**Author's Note:**

> Baze and Chirrut both know the old ballad sung by travelers:
> 
> Planetlight on the Lily Star
> 
> NaJedha spreads its rosy light  
> in the heart of the lily star;  
> believe in me as I do in you;  
> we’ll meet after traveling far.
> 
> Reflected beams are you and I,  
> we touch and then depart;  
> you go away beyond my reach  
> but rest still in my heart.
> 
> NaJedha’s light reflect on you  
> as paths you walk, as wastes you stride;  
> let glimmers of that gifting light  
> remind you I’ll come to your side.
> 
> You promised me you would return,  
> I promised I would stay,  
> enduring ice and cutting winds,  
> chill Jedha’s night and day.
> 
> Our meeting brief, our parting long,  
> our ways split us too far;  
> but once again NaJedha’s light  
> Will shine on lily’s star.
> 
> You’ve waited long, you’ve wandered far,  
> your way leads back again;  
> and as you reach through time to me,  
> I’ll wait here for you then.
> 
> —————
> 
> Inspiration for the different kinds of bao from the very nice fic ["agape, adzuki"](https://archiveofourown.org/works/10084532) by chuchisushi.


End file.
